


Old Dog, New Tricks

by lamardeuse



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:16:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can teach an old dog after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Dog, New Tricks

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Dorothy and yunitsa, betas extraordinaire. All remaining errors are mine.

Robbie flipped through the Open University booklet, trying to focus on the words and not on the near-overwhelming urge to fling it across the room.

“Oh, no.” James said as he plunked down on the couch beside him. “Innocent managed to corner you?”

“Left it on me desk with a bloody official memo, didn't she?” Robbie said, taking the beer that Hathaway handed him. “Worse than a decree from the throne. There'll be no escaping it this time.”

“It mightn't be so bad,” James said, soothingly. “You'll find a course that you'll want to take.”

“I've been through it cover to cover twice now,” Robbie said, finally tossing it on the table. James shot him a raised eyebrow, then picked it up and began flipping through it.

Robbie took a long pull of his beer and sat back to watch Hathaway. It had been nearly two months since they'd started – well, Robbie called it _going together_ in his head, which he knew full well was old-fashioned and a bit ridiculous – and most days, he still didn't quite know what the hell he was doing.

He knew that Hathaway had definitely started it – one night at the end of a perfectly uneventful day, when they'd been sitting together on Robbie's couch much like this. The next thing Robbie knew he'd started talking about Laura, about how they'd agreed to break things off once and for all. It had been two weeks since it had happened, and Robbie wasn't exactly sure why he hadn't told Hathaway before now.

“That's a shame,” James had said, his gaze trained on Robbie as though he were searching a murder suspect's face for nervous tics. “You got on so well.”

“We did, because we've known each other a long time,” Robbie murmured. “We like one another well enough, but in the end there was no real spark there.”

James frowned at him. “I take it you tried to strike a fire, then.”

Robbie raised his eyebrows. “That's a bit personal.”

“Sorry,” Hathaway said, not looking the least bit contrite. His gaze dipped for a moment, then rose again, the clear question still written on his face.

Robbie rolled his eyes. “If you must know, I kissed her.”

“You kissed her.”

“Yeah.”

This time it was James' eyebrows that shot towards the ceiling. “That's hardly much of a test.”

Robbie sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sometimes all you need is one kiss, lad.”

And then James had stared at him, his gaze changing from astonished to speculative. Robbie's heart had started thundering in his ears for no good reason. “Is that so,” James murmured.

Robbie knew he should do – something, but instead he sat stock-still as James set down his beer bottle and took Robbie's from his unresisting grip and set it on the coffee table. He watched as James moved closer on the couch, observed the fine tremor in James' hand as it reached up to cradle Robbie's jaw – _nervous, he's nervous_ – before James' face loomed close, blurring Robbie's vision. After that, his other senses took over, noted the slight scratch of James' evening beard and the astonishing softness of his mouth, the wet press of their lips and the tantalising tickle of James' tongue, urging Robbie to open to him, to this.

Robbie had been right, though; it had only taken one kiss.

Blinking his way out of his reverie, he was dismayed to find James watching him, a fond expression on his face. “What?” he demanded, but James only smiled faintly.

“I think I've found a course for you,” he said, passing the booklet back to Robbie.

Robbie scowled as he scanned the page. “I told you, history was me worst subject. Can't stand it.”

Hathaway pointed to a paragraph in the left column, drawing his attention to a specific course. “This isn't like any history you would have studied at school. No kings and Prime Ministers to memorise – this is about working people.”

“Hmph,” Robbie said, though privately he was curious. _Britain in the Twentieth Century,_ the course title read. _Students will learn of the social forces affecting the lives of everyday Britons in the last century, from women's suffrage and the human toll of the world wars to postwar immigration and the decriminalisation of homosexuality._ “I lived through nearly half of that century. I remember most of these 'social forces' they're talking about.”

“It's perfect for you, then. Gives you the comfort of the familiar.” Robbie looked up to see James trying to bottle a smirk and failing miserably. “And the other students will look to you for tales of the olden times.”

“Oh, you –” Robbie had the sudden urge to kiss James senseless, to press him back into the couch and put his hands all over him. The thought was oddly frightening, which surprised him. And then it struck him that James was always the one who initiated things. Of course, Robbie was always an enthusiastic participant once they began, but at the moment, he couldn't recall a single time when he'd been the one to start the ball rolling, as it were.

Before Robbie could sort through his churning thoughts, James set his beer bottle down and kissed him briefly on the lips. “Sorry,” he murmured, and this time it sounded sincere.

– _As James started to pull away, Robbie dropped the booklet and swiftly hooked his hand around the back of James' neck, keeping him close. James' eyes went wide in his face and his lips parted. Robbie decided it was a good look on him._

“ _That wasn’t much of an apology, Sergeant,” Robbie growled. James’ eyes clouded over with lust. Robbie had never used his rank when they were like this. Enjoyed that, did he? Interesting._

“ _I can do better, sir,” Hathaway said, his voice a low, hoarse rumble that made Robbie's hand clench on James' neck._

“ _See that you do,” Robbie said, and James tilted his head and proceeded to follow orders to the letter.–_

Robbie shook himself back to reality. Christ, what was wrong with him? He'd never say or do anything like that in a million years. Looking up, he saw that this time, Hathaway was watching him with concern.

 _Probably checking for signs of stroke,_ Robbie thought. _Not that I blame him._

Robbie held up the booklet. “Thanks for finding that. I'll sign up for it tomorrow, get Innocent off me back.”

Hathaway only smiled faintly, and they turned their attention back to the telly. And later, when the match was over and James climbed into Robbie’s lap and kissed him, Robbie sank his hands into James’ hair and kissed him back.

   
   
   
   
   
   
   
 

Robbie needn’t have worried about being the oldest person in the Open University class; there were two women who had to be in their seventies, and a few who were near his age or a bit younger. He’d dithered about what to wear for half a blooming hour before James had stopped by. He’d taken one look at the pile of discarded clothing on Robbie’s bed, plucked a shirt and trousers from the mess, and handed them to him silently. Robbie had felt like a silly tit, though there had been nothing but affection in James’ eyes.

“Welcome to _Britain in the Twentieth Century_ ,” the instructor said. She was a few years younger than Robbie, with a mass of gingery grey curls framing her face. “I’m Dr. Clara Jones. Please call me Clara; you'll find I'm not much for formality.”

At the end of the hour, Robbie was startled to realise he was riveted, hanging on Clara's every word. She clearly knew her subject and enjoyed sharing it, which was more than he could have said for any of his old history teachers.

He didn't know what made him stop by Clara's desk and introduce himself on the way out, but she seemed genuinely pleased that he had. “And what made you want to take Twentieth Century History, Robbie?”

“Erm.” He briefly considered lying, professing a lifelong love of history, but decided against it. “Well, I'm a police detective, and our Chief Inspector is keen on – ah, self-improvement.”

She regarded him for a long moment, then surprised him with a merry laugh. “So you were forced to take it, basically.”

“Well, not this _particular_ course,” Robbie said, smiling wryly. “A – friend of mine – thought I might enjoy taking this.”

“And are you?” she asked, eyes twinkling.

“So far, so good,” he allowed, smiling back, “though I hated history in school. But this isn't like anything I was ever taught.”

Clara waved a hand. “Of course it isn't, because until recently, history has been written by the nobs, and the nobs love nothing better than hearing about themselves. But now it's our turn, isn't it, Robbie?”

“I suppose it is,” Robbie said. “Though it's sometimes hard to remember here in Oxford.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Off and on, the better part of thirty years now.”

“Good to know you’ve survived,” she said feelingly. “I just moved from Cardiff three months ago, and I'm already starting to wonder what I'm doing here.”

“I thought you might be Welsh,” Robbie said, deadpan.

Clara's eyebrows climbed, catching on to the joke immediately. “Oh, you thought I might be Welsh? You'd have to be deaf not to know it. Yes, and to complete the cliché, I'm descended from six generations of coal miners.” She rose to her feet; Robbie fell into step with her as she left the lecture hall. “What about you? What did your people do up in Tyneside?”

“No grand tradition. They've always been working class, from what I've heard. Dad was a mechanic on the railroad, and Mum raised the kids and worked in the home. During the war, she was a welder in the Northumberland shipyard and he was ground crew at RAF Acklington.”

“Interesting. Did she tell you anything about her work in the yard?”

“Not that I know of. They're both gone now, and they didn't talk much about their experiences in the war. I know Mum lost an older sister in one of the raids on Sunderland, but she never told us anything about her.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Clara mused. “But not uncommon. There aren’t many from that time left, and soon their stories will be gone.” As they reached the front doors, Clara stopped. “Look, I'm sorry, I must be running, but I hope we can discuss this some other time. I’d like to know more of _your_ story.”

Robbie snorted. “Not much to tell about me,” he said, even as his thoughts strayed to James.

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” Clara said, patting him on the arm before heading out the door.

   
   
   
   
   
   
   
 

Robbie was staring at his computer screen when he was suddenly aware of James looming behind him, making him start. “Bloody hell,” Robbie breathed. “Don’t do that.”

“What _are_ you reading?” James asked, peering at the screen. “That’s not the Allen report.”

“I suppose you could call it research,” Robbie said stiffly.

“The [BBC People’s War site](http://www.bbc.co.uk/ww2peopleswar/categories/c1156/)?” James asked. “But you don't do research on the internet.” There was a pause. “Oh, hang on. This is for the course, isn't it?”

“Yeah,” Robbie said. “We're studying the war now, and the lecturer got me thinking about Mum and Dad. I think I'd like to do my final project on it.”

“On the war.”

“Well, the people who lived through it. Maybe – women who worked in the factories and shipyards and such. I emailed the Imperial War Museum –”

“You _what_?” James said, sounding a little strangled.

“– and they said I can make an appointment to visit their archives.” Robbie made a face. “Don't know how I get myself into these things.”

“Because even when you hate doing something, you hate the thought of doing a half-arsed job even more?”

Robbie twisted his head round to look at Hathaway. He was still staring at the screen, but there was a faint flush on his cheeks. It shocked Robbie to realise he wanted to kiss him – here, in the middle of the station with anyone likely to walk by the open door!

Robbie cleared his throat. “I don't hate the course,” he admitted. “I'm actually enjoying it. Clara – that's the instructor – makes it interesting.”

James did look at him then. “Clara?”

“She insisted the first day that everyone call her by her first name.”

“How very – egalitarian of her.”

“Don't get all nob on me now. We both know you're as working class as the rest of us.”

James' mouth quirked. “Best not let that get around. Ruin my image as a stuck-up prat.”

“You're not a prat,” Robbie said, his voice low and intimate as they stared into one another's eyes. “You're –” James' lips parted, and Robbie sucked in a breath. “You're standing too close, lad.”

“Sorry,” James said, straightening so quickly he nearly tipped over backwards.

“You're all right,” Robbie muttered, turning reluctantly back to the computer and closing the browser window. “Well, I suppose this bloody report isn't going to write itself, is it?”

   
   
   
   
   
   
   
 

Robbie rubbed at his tired, scratchy eyes. He didn't know if it was the harsh light from the dining room lamp or the small font, but this last reading assignment was making his eyes hurt.

“Still hard at it, I see.”

Robbie turned to see James standing just at the edge of the light. His hair was rumpled, his pyjama bottoms were slung low on his hips, and every inch of him looked touchable and soft. Robbie felt a near-unbearable wave of fondness sweep over him at the sight. “Yeah,” he murmured, marking his place in the book before closing it. “S'pose I should quit.”

“You should,” James said, hands going to Robbie's shoulders and finding just the right spot to press. Robbie groaned and dropped his chin to his chest.

“I don't know how I'm going to write a research paper,” Robbie heard himself say after a minute. “It'll be bollocks.”

James' fingers dug a little deeper. “You'll do fine. I can help you.”

Robbie shook his head. “I wouldn't ask that of you.”

James' hands stilled. “Why not?”

Grunting, Robbie got to his feet, ignoring the way his back protested the change in angle. “Because I don't want you to end up doing the paperwork the way you always do. This isn't part of the job.”

James raised his hands to Robbie's chest, slid them up to his shoulders. “I wouldn't be helping you as part of the job. I'd be helping you because I...” He trailed off, then pulled back while Robbie's heart thudded steadily in his chest. “Because this time, I'm the one with the expertise.”

“I suppose you are at that,” Robbie conceded, while privately he felt a small twinge of disappointment. “But I still want to do this myself as much as I can.” He sighed. “I wish Mum had left something behind. I rang me sister Noreen, but she said what I expected. Mum never left her any diaries or letters.”

James looked Robbie in the eye. “What about an oral history? You could use the skills you already have.”

“For interrogating suspects?” Robbie said wryly.

“Talking to people. Getting them to tell you their stories.”

“I don't know anyone well enough to ask them. And I can't just show up at an old people's home and start taking statements.”

James hesitated for a moment, then said in a rush, “I might know someone you could interview. She worked in the Birmingham Spitfire factory for four years.”

“Really? Who is she?”

James bit his lip briefly. “She's my grandmother.”

   
   
   
   
   
   
   
 

“I think it's a marvelous idea, Robbie,” Clara said, taking a sip of her pint.

Robbie's heart sank. “But I wouldn't be using a lot of sources in the report,” he protested. “Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?”

“I've said this a dozen times in class: primary sources are worth much more than a pile of secondary sources. And you're going to preserve a story that hasn't been told. That's incredibly valuable.”

“All right, then,” Robbie said, staring morosely at his half-empty pint. “Thanks.”

“You were hoping I'd say no,” Clara said. Robbie raised his head. “Why?”

Robbie hesitated. He briefly considered lying, then gave it up. “She's the grandmother of my – partner.”

“And by 'partner', you mean...”

“Not in the work sense, no,” Robbie murmured. “Well, not only in the work sense. He's also me sergeant.”

Clara stared at him for a long moment while Robbie tried not to squirm. Finally, her lips curled in a smile and she raised her glass in a toast. “I knew you were more interesting than you let on.”

“I can't believe I just told you that,” Robbie muttered.

“I have that sort of a face,” Clara said. “But to be honest, I still don't see what your concern is.”

“Well, it's too – personal, isn't it? I'm too close to the subject to be able to do it justice.”

Clara sighed. “You're still thinking like a copper. Objectivity is a fine thing if you're searching for a murder suspect, but not for a social historian. In fact, I'd argue there's no true objectivity to be had for either profession. Better to acknowledge our biases so that we can understand how they influence us.”

Robbie huffed out a breath. “Right.”

“I take it this is the first time you'll be meeting his grandmother.”

“First time meeting any of his family,” Robbie said. James' parents were both dead, and he was an only child. He'd never thought James had been much on family until he'd told Robbie he'd been visiting his gran every week for years. It brought home to Robbie just how little he knew about the man, even now.

“That's a big step,” Clara observed, taking another sip of her beer.

Robbie shrugged. “Eh, he'll probably just introduce me as a friend.”

“Because he's not out to her?”

“I don't know,” Robbie admitted. “James keeps things close to the vest.”

Clara smiled at him. “And you don't?”

“Not with you, it seems.”

“I'll take that as a compliment,” she said. “But really, it's probably because I'm outside of it. You needed to tell someone.”

Robbie blew out a breath. “I imagine I did. He's – quite a bit younger than I am.”

“I gathered that from the fact he has a grandmother who was in the war. What's the problem?”

Robbie took a sip of his pint. “He tells me there isn't one.”

“He sounds like a smart man.”

“He is.”

“Then perhaps you'd best listen to him,” Clara said, touching her glass to his.

   
   
   
   
   
   
   
 

When he got home to his flat a little after ten, Robbie was surprised to find James curled up in his bed asleep. He'd given the lad a key long ago when they were still only work mates, but this was the first time he'd used it. Robbie felt a small, strange tug in the centre of his chest at the sight of the blond head sticking out from under the covers, the sweep of nearly invisible lashes fanning over his cheek. The lad was so pale, a polar opposite to Val in every way; come to think of it, Robbie had always tended towards dark rather than fair. There was no accounting for him, no explanation except that he was James.

Robbie still had no idea what James saw in him. And after talking Clara's ear off for the better part of two hours, he could admit that he was waiting for James to wake up and realise he could do so much better than a broken down old copper haunted by ghosts.

James stirred then, jerking awake and looking muzzily around the room, the way he had that time in the hospital. “Oh,” he said, voice even lower than usual. “I fell asleep.”

“Brilliant observation, Sergeant,” Robbie said, letting the affection show. James snorted.

“I meant to surprise you.” He glanced at the clock beside the bed.

“Sorry. Clara and I got – erm, chatting.”

James shrugged, but he didn't look at Robbie when he spoke. “It's all right. You couldn't have known I'd be here.” He pushed the sheet down past his shoulders; his chest was bare.

“Are you –” Robbie gestured helplessly.

James actually blushed, and Robbie's breath stopped in his throat. “Yeah.”

Robbie pictured sinking to his knees and pushing back the sheet, revealing every inch of James to his gaze, looking his fill before taking him in his mouth. He felt himself flushing, embarrassed at the very thought.

“I'll just –” he pointed at the door to the loo “– be a few minutes, all right?”

James stared at him for a moment, then nodded once. “Sure,” he murmured. “I'll be here.”

Robbie was almost to the door when James asked, “What did the lecturer say?”

Robbie stopped, half-turned. “She said – it would be fine.”

“Told you,” James said.

“Yeah, you did.” Robbie glanced back at him. “Thanks for the idea.” He smiled, trying for lightness and knowing he was missing it by miles. “Think your gran'll like me?”

James blinked at him. “I think she'll love you,” he said, and Robbie could only nod around the sudden, shocking lump in his throat.

   
   
   
   
   
   
   
 

James' grandmother was nothing like Robbie had expected. But then, James had been nothing like he'd expected, so he supposed it made sense.

Robbie was now on his third tape, and they were finishing their second pot of tea. His interviewing skills had hardly come into play; Rose Anderson was bursting to tell her life story to an appreciative audience.

“And then there was the Polish lad. Oh, my, the Polish lad.” Rose sighed. “He was marvelous.” She handed Robbie the yellowed photo album. “He's on the left side.”

Robbie peered at the picture. “Quite handsome.”

“Even more than the Free Frenchman, and that's no lie.”

James leaned closer to supposedly see the photo, but Robbie knew he could see quite well from where he was. He'd had his arm across the back of the couch behind Robbie for the better part of the afternoon, and even though he hadn't told his gran anything, Robbie knew full well Rose was sharp as a bloody tack. She'd figured it out by now, he'd bet his pension on it.

Rose stared at the photo after Robbie handed it back. One finger, twisted by arthritis, caressed the photo as though she were smoothing the man's hair back into place. “Neither of them survived, poor ducks,” Rose murmured. “Such a waste. It was all such a waste.” She cleared her throat. “Well, shall I tell you what we girls did to the efficiency wanker who came to the plant in '43 and tried to tell us how to do our jobs?”

James barked a laugh, and Robbie grinned. “Yes, please,” he said, already thinking about the closest shop where he might buy more tape for the recorder.

   
   
   
   
   
   
   
 

As soon as they were through the door of Robbie's flat, James turned and put his arms around Robbie. Robbie's arms came up automatically, stroking James' back. “Here, now, what's this?”

“She approves,” James murmured into Robbie's neck.

“Was there ever any doubt?” Robbie said, trying for teasing.

“Not really, but it's still nice to hear it.” James raised his head. “She told me you're a nice lad. And you dressed up to see her.”

Robbie looked down at his suit, then at James' jeans and t-shirt. “You didn't.”

James shrugged. “She's used to my wayward habits.”

“And when did you have this great discussion?”

“When you were in the loo.”

“I wasn't in there that long!”

“It wasn't a long conversation.” James took a deep breath and let it out. “She asked me if I loved you, and I told her I did. Very much. And she said, that's lovely, James. He's a nice lad, and he knows how to dress when visiting a lady. See? Not long at all.”

Robbie stared at him. “You – you told your grandmother you –”

James nodded, biting his lip.

“Before you told me?”

James placed his hand over Robbie's heart, a curiously ritualistic gesture. “Figured you already knew,” he murmured.

“Ah, lad,” Robbie said, placing his own hand over James'.

James stared at both of their hands. “I'm afraid, you know.”

“Afraid of what?”

James looked up. “I know you'd rather be with a woman.”

“That's not true,” Robbie protested.

“You like Clara.”

“I like a lot of people,” Robbie said. “And Clara – well. That night at the pub with her, pretty much all I did was jabber on about you.”

James' eyes widened. “You –”

“Yeah,” Robbie said, releasing James' hand to cup his face. “You're on me mind all the time. I think about –”

“What?” James whispered.

“Lots of things. If you'll still want this in a year. If you've had concussion and that's why you think you love me.” He paused, then blurted, “Things I'd like to do to you if I could work up the nerve.”

James sucked in a breath. “God. I wish you could.”

“Do you?” Robbie murmured.

James shut his eyes and nodded. Twin spots of colour had appeared on his cheeks; he looked – Christ, he looked –

Robbie leaned in and kissed him. James made a soft sound, almost a whimper, and opened to him eagerly. From there it was a bit hazy; the next thing Robbie knew, he had James pressed up against the front door of the flat, a knee between his legs, while James clung to his shoulders as though he needed help standing.

They broke apart, panting. Robbie tugged at the hem of James' t-shirt, drawing it upwards, and James lifted his arms helpfully. When James reached for Robbie's tie, though, Robbie shook his head. “No,” he said, thinking of James in his bed the other night, naked and waiting for him. “Just you.”

James leaned his head back against the door and moaned. He reached down, and their fingers tangled together on James' belt buckle. From there, it was a breathless, giddy race until James stood naked before him, until Robbie pressed against him fully clothed, felt James' hardness pushing against his belly.

“Oh God,” James groaned, “Please.”

Stepping back, Robbie grabbed hold of one of James' hands and tugged him forwards, leading him to the bedroom, though their progress was slowed when James pushed Robbie against a wall and kissed him, hard and desperate. When they finally made their stumbling way to the bed, Robbie gave him a gentle shove to topple him onto the mattress. James looked up at him through pale eyelashes, and when Robbie leaned down to kiss him, James grinned wickedly, wrapped Robbie's tie around his fist and reeled him in.

   
   
   
   
   
   
   
 

“That suit's a write-off,” Robbie murmured later, gazing forlornly at the crumpled heap of clothing on the floor.

“Mmm,” James replied, nuzzling Robbie's chest. “Just needs a drycleaning.”

“I am _not_ bloody taking that to the drycleaner's. I'd die of embarrassment.”

“Then I'll buy you a new one,” James said. When Robbie went still under him, James raised his head to look at him.

“What's wrong?”

Robbie shook his head. “Nothing. I love you.”

James looked a little stunned. “Because I'm buying you a new suit?”

Robbie tilted his head for a slow, lingering kiss. “Because you make me _feel_ new.” Another kiss. “Different.” He carded his hand through James' hair. “You've brought me back to life, lad.”

“Robbie,” James whispered against his mouth.

“Should have said it sooner, I know. But don't doubt that I want this,” Robbie murmured. “I'm not going anywhere. And if you change your mind –”

“I won't,” James said stubbornly.

“Listen to me. If you ever do, you only have to tell me. Every day with you is a gift to me, do you hear?”

“I'll tell you,” James said, “though I doubt I'll be changing my mind, considering how long I've felt this way.”

Robbie frowned. “How long?”

James traced the line of Robbie's mouth with a finger, shook his head. “Too pathetic. Let's just say I'm patient.”

“James, you –” Robbie began, but James' finger pressed harder against Robbie's lips, silencing him. After a few moments, James laid his head back down, and Robbie sighed and stroked his hair until he fell asleep, the lad a warm, welcome weight on his chest.


End file.
